


Ghosts

by pyraet (Dark_LightRae)



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Almost Everyone - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It of Sorts, Flashbacks, Not Canon Compliant, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, also there's gonna be a lot more characters mentioned but we'll tag as we go, we're gonna fix those! i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29453493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_LightRae/pseuds/pyraet
Summary: Quirrel doesn't die at blue lake. Ghost drags him back to the surface, where a once-abandoned town is filled with improbable survivors. People who all know Ghost, and credit them with their survival. People they kept alive.Quirrel should be thankful. He knows that. But with Monomon dead and his old memories returning, it's hard to stay in the present.(In which Quirrel is prevented from dying early and so has to deal with *feelings*.)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

Quirrel first encountered the little traveler in the crossroads under Dirtmouth.

Quirrel did not hear them approach. If they made a sound, it was lost in the looming silence of the temple. In fact, Quirrel only realized he was not alone when he saw a flash of white out of the corner of his eye.

His hand instinctively tightened on his nail, weight shifting slightly as he turned his head—ready to jump back, to swing, to dodge this threat like he had every other bug since he’d climbed down the well—but the stranger made no move to strike. Two blank holes stared up at Quirrel from a helmet-style mask, the kind that surrounded the head completely. It was comically large compared to the bug’s body. Quirrel knew better than to assume this stranger was a child, or to relax his grip on his nail, but he couldn’t help but wonder what such a small being was doing alone down here.

“Hello there!” Quirrel greeted cheerfully. His voice was a bit higher than normal; he wasn’t used to being snuck up on. Still, his pleasure was genuine. “How delightful to meet another traveler on these forgotten roads.”

The stranger didn’t respond.

“You're a short one, but you've a strong look about you,” Quireel continued. “I’m Quirrel. I have something of an obsession with uncharted places.”

No reaction. It was like he hadn’t spoken. The bug was as still as the massive monolith beside them.

It was possible they didn’t understand speech. None of the bugs he’d met down here had—their attacks had been unrelenting, despite his hurried reassurances and offered food. This stranger had a mask, and their eyes did not share that sickly glow, but perhaps they too were lost to his words…

He was being paranoid. This traveler was motionless, yes, but they did not feel empty. Quite the opposite. Quirrel could feel their gaze. And they had made no move for the tragedy of a nail on their back.

It had been a while since Quirrel had reason to sign. There had been a mining town, he half-remembered, with a drill so loud it was impossible to hear even the loudest shouts… the memory slipped away. The wastelands had taken it’s due indiscriminately. Quirrel shook off the echoes and repeated the introduction, this time signing as he spoke. “Apologies, I am a bit out of practice with nonverbal languages. It’s wonderful to see a friendly face down here. My name is Quirrel.” He spelled it out as he spoke. Q-U-I-R-R-E-L.

The stranger tilted their head to the side. The mask hid their expression, but Quirrel took the motion as encouragement.

“I have something of an obsession with uncharted places,” he continued, fumbling with the sign for ‘uncharted’ for a few moments before settling for ‘not good remember’ instead. “This ancient kingdom holds many fascinating mysteries, and one of the most intriguing of them is standing right before us.” He turned back to the egg, tilting his neck back while his body toward the stranger. He didn’t have to fake the energy in his voice, or his hands. “A great stone egg, lying in the corpse of an ancient kingdom. And this egg...Is it warm? It certainly gives off a unique air.”

A creepy air. Quirrel was equally fascinated and disturbed. If only he could read the runes…

“Can it be opened? There are strange marks all over it... I do so love a mystery... And who knows what other marvels lie even deeper below us...”

Quirrel was rambling now, talking more to himself than the stranger, but they didn’t seem to mind. There was a focus to them, a bright energy that almost repelled the stagnant air of the temple. Perhaps that’s why Quirrel kept talking, long past when politeness would have had him hold his tongue.

“For so long I've felt drawn here. So many tales full of wonders and horrors. No longer could I resist. I just had to see it for myself. And what a time I chose to arrive! This dead world has sprung to life. The creatures are riled up and the earth rumbles. The air is thick. I wonder what could have brought it all about?”

The traveler glanced toward the egg, then back at him. After a moment, they pointed toward it.

“You think this temple has something to do with it?” Quirrel guessed.

The traveler nodded once.

Quirrel smiled behind his mask. “It is quite possible! There is certainly something strange about this place. But I imagine there are more marvels below us, some far stranger than this. Who knows what we may find?”

The traveler didn’t respond. They glanced toward the temple entrance. In the distance, something skittered across the cobblestone.

Wonders and horrors indeed.

Quirrel took a step forward, so the stranger could definitely see his signing. “To persevere in this ruin, that old nail alone just won't be enough.”

The traveler’s mask jerked back toward them.

“Though that's no problem!” he hastily added, trying without much success to make his fumbling gestures look reassuring. “One only has to look around. Plenty have come before us and most have met their grisly end, many more equipped than you and I. I'm sure they wouldn't mind were a fellow explorer to relieve them of their tools. It's a kindness really. The dead shouldn't be burdened with such things.”

He winced at his own words. That had sounded less morbid in his head. Still, the little bug seemed to relax slightly, so Quirrel must have said something right.

But the tension was still there, and Quirrel decided he shouldn’t push it. He lapsed into silence, eventually turning his attention back to the egg. The runes felt familiar. Perhaps he’d seen them somewhere before? It was impossible to know how much the wastes had taken. The harder he looked, the more his eyes seemed to skirt away. What was he missing?

By the time Quirrel looked up, the traveler was gone, and he had a headache. Quirrel sighed. The traveler had the right idea. He could always return. With a last glance back at the egg, Quirrel headed back out onto the crossroads.

Quirrel met the traveler twice more as he followed the scattered signs of the Pilgrim’s Way. Each time the traveler found him, appearing as if by magic, and they left without saying a word. Quirrel might have thought more on them, on how their paths seemed to align despite the mess of twisting tunnels that made up the kingdom, but he was overwhelmed with the joy of his exploration. He’d never imagined Greenpath would be so full of life! And the enchanting rhythm of the fungal wastes, and the quiet beauty of the abandoned station… with every step, Quirrel found something new to delight in. The pull that had drawn him to this kingdom had only grown stronger.

He should be happy beyond belief. And he was! Being here was right in a way he couldn’t describe. For all the wonders and new places, he felt like he was home.

But it shouldn’t feel like home. He’d never been here. And he had no reason to know the things he knew.

Why was he so certain there was something living in that acid lake? How had he known that a Nailsmith once lived near the city, let alone have an image of him in his mind? Why did he hear voices when he woke up, the sounds of life that could not belong to the now-deserted tunnels?

And why did thinking about any of those things make his head hurt?

He’d stopped at a bench to rest. He’d found the City, and for a moment he’d been blindsided by awe. Awe, and a deep sadness. The city was massive, beautiful, but drowning in loss. Quirrel had been overcome with exhaustion suddenly, so much so that he’d had to sit down. For the first time, the pull that had hastened his steps was not enough to make him move forward. Grief that was not his own washed over Quirrel like waves.

Eventually the feeling passed. The sound of the rain hitting the glass soothed his soul. However sad this husk of a city was, it was still beautiful. How marvelous it must have looked when it boasted a different name! Bugs rushing to and fro, stag beetles carrying passengers from across the kingdom to bask in the wonder. Soldiers, nobles, commoners and tradesmen, living in separate worlds under the same cavern roof. The noise of it, the life…

Quirrel did not hear the traveler’s footsteps over the rain, but he was somehow not surprised to see the familiar horned mask in his peripheries. He looked over to the traveler as they approached, raising one hand in a lazy greeting.

“Isn't this a wonderful spot for a rest? I so love the sound of the rain upon glass.”

The traveler looked between Quirrel and the window. After a moment, they hopped up onto the bench beside him.

The simple motion flooded Quirrel’s heart with contentment. He’d grown fond of this little bug. He was glad to see them still in one piece.

Quirel turned back to the sight outside. “The capital lies before us my friend. What a somber place it seems, and one that holds the answers to many a mystery. The city looks to be built into an enormous cavern, and the rain pours down from cracks in the stone above. There must be a lot of water up there somewhere.”

He squinted at the cavern ceiling, nearly obscured by the rain. All that weight…

“I suppose, if the cave roof stayed strong this long, it should hold for us. The rain seems to come down endlessly, though. I'd like to see where it all comes from before I leave this Kingdom. What a sight it must be!”

The traveler sat up straighter, turning to face Quirrel more fully. A small arm emerged from their cloak to point at Quirrel.

“Me?” Quirrel frowned, trying to guess what the traveler must mean. “I do mean to see it, yes. I want to see everything.”

The traveler dropped their arm sharply, head jerking side to side. Quirrel had clearly guessed wrong, but he couldn’t begin to imagine what they’d meant. To his distress, the traveler seemed just as aware of the impasse. They hopped off the bench, frustration rolling off their small form, and pointed at Quirrel again.

“Me,” Quirrel echoed.

A sharp nod. A hand pointed up.

“The lake?”

A sharp no.

“The surface?”

The traveler nodded, relaxing slightly. They pointed again to Quirrel, then above.

Quirrel replayed their one-sided conversation in his head. “Me leaving?”

The traveler nodded.

Quirrel waited for further elaboration, but they gave none. He didn’t know what they meant.

The traveler’s shoulders slowly fell, collapsing inward. They stepped back, toward the window, and looked away.

“Wait.” Quirrel reached out, not sure what he thought he was doing but helpless to stop the motion. “I’m sure we can figure this out.” He attempted a smile. “You made it all this way, with that same terrible nail I insulted when we first met. Don’t tell me a simply miscommunication can defeat you.”

The traveler turned back. They did not step within reach of Quirrel’s hand, but they didn’t leave.

Quirrel let his arm fall.

The traveler stood there for a long moment. As if thinking. Then they slowly pointed to something out the window, down below, and began walking. No. Marching. Slow, heavy steps that were nothing like the traveler’s usual light gait.

“The guards,” Quirrel guessed.

The traveler stopped immediately, nodding. Another pause.

Then they beat their little arms up and down as fast as they could and jumped up and down.

Quirrel couldn’t help but laugh. The impression shouldn’t have worked, but it did. “The vengeflies in the crossroads. Or the squits in greenpath? The flying bugs that wanted to eat me!”

The traveler nodded again. It was hard to read their body language, but Quirrel thought they were enjoying themself. They imitated the guards, then the flies, then quickly drew their nail. They slashed at an imaginary foe, blade moving with shocking speed, before they collapsed onto the ground, their own nail pointed toward themself. They turned their head to look at Quirrel, still on the floor.

He considered the performance, amusement tempered by the traveler’s earnest desire to communicate. “The guards and the flies attacked you. You are here, so you did not die. Did you kill them?”

The traveler nodded, but distantly, as if that didn’t matter. They sat up and pointed to Quirrel.

He shook his head. “I have killed a few bugs, when I have to. I try to avoid them if I can.”

The traveler shook their head vigorously. They sprang to their feet, and pointed at Quirrel, then the bench.

“…yes, I can stay here.”

The traveler scampered back down the hall, nail in hand. Quirrel picked up his own nail, just in case they needed help, but the traveler returned very quickly. They were dragging a belfly behind them, orange guts staining a macabre trail behind them. The traveler dropped it at Quirrel’s feet and pointed to it.

Quirrel inhaled slowly. “Good job.”

In truth, he felt a little sick, but he had never had the stomach for killing. He did when he had to, but it didn’t mean he liked it. Still, Quirrel knew the bug would have killed the traveler just as quickly. They were infected with a sickness, something that filled his heart with dread. Maybe it was a kindness, putting them out of their misery.

The traveler shook off the praise impatiently. They pointed to the bug, then out at the window. Then up, and down, and in a seemingly random pattern as if to gesture to everything in the whole world. Then they pointed to Quirrel and, after a second’s hesitation, held their arms in an x in front of him.

Understanding shot through Quirrel like lightning. Oh, it was so simple! He had been the same thing, had he not?

“I’m not like the other bugs,” Quirrel translated confidently. “That’s it, right? Everyone else attacks you, because they’re infected with that stuff, but you and I aren’t. And you enjoy finding me. Maybe even as much as I have come to look forward to our meetings.”

The traveler didn’t move, for so long that Quirrel began to doubt his theory. Then the traveler nodded once. Almost hesitantly, they hopped up to sit beside him again.

“As I said, I’m quite glad for your company,” Quirrel said around a smile. He was so utterly fond of this little bug. “I’m sure we will meet many times more along the road. I'm not surprised you made it here. There's an air of strength about you. I suspect it would be quite intimidating, if not for your small stature.”

This time, the traveler seemed to know they were being teased. They crossed their arms, turning their head away, but they made no move to leave the bench. Quirrel chuckled, and they turned back to watch him.

They wanted to be understood. Quirrel wanted to understand. This bug was a mystery, and it was just as enticing as the secrets the abandoned kingdom hid.

“If we are to keep meeting, I should at least have something to call you,” Quirrel said. “I can’t keep calling you ‘the traveler’. I’m sure we are not the only explorer’s down here, even if many no longer live.” He held up both his hands, once again signing ‘my name Q-U-I-R-R-E-L’. “Can you read?”

The traveler turned more fully to face Quirrel, the whole of their focus on him. They nodded, then seemed to shrink. Shook their head.

“It’s okay, you just need to know the alphabet and the sounds the letters make. Here.” He pulled out his journal, flipping to a blank page. He wrote the alphabet in his best handwriting. Then he turned it back the traveler. “This symbol is for the ‘ahh’ sound. It’s one of the most used, so you’ll see it on all sorts of signs…”

The little traveler’s name was Ghost. It was a terrible name, especially in a kingdom where the dead didn’t stay dead. And yet, Quirrel couldn’t help but think it was perfect. A little bug that walked near-silently and came and went wherever they pleased. Quirrel couldn't imagine calling them anything else.

It was nice to have a friend. Quirrel held onto that feeling when the headaches got worse, when the pull grew overwhelming, when he found the archive. When he took off his second mask, the one he had thought he'd always had but now knew better, and offered it up to his best friend. So that she could die.

Ghost’s presence at his side was not enough to soften the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnnnn I mean it's canon you all know what's gonna happen.
> 
> Just to establish a few guidelines here: this story hugs close to canon, but you can already see there is some divergence in Ghost's behavior, and therefore the dialogue. There's a reason for that. As we go along, those divergences will become more pronounced. 
> 
> (I actually like Quirrel's death in canon. It's a really impactful moment in the game. I think his dialogue makes it clear that he really is at peace with his life, and I don't think he drowned. Either he wandered away, or his age 'caught up with him' without Monomon's mask... but this is an AU. We're here to have fun.)
> 
> Next chapter we get into the heavy stuff and the real meat of this story. It's gonna be rough. I'm not gonna sugarcoat it, a lot of this story is gonna be rough. But it gets better. He's gonna get better. He just gets a bit worse first.
> 
> Also: it's impossible not to mention Stag Beetles and Broken Legs by Aryashi. Their work is brilliant, but I'm sure you've already read it. I haven't read it in a while, but we're playing in the same sandbox, so there are bound to be some similarities. I'm taking a different path, but I was certainly inspired by their work. It's just. So good.


	2. Chapter 2

The archive was eerily quiet. Without Uumuu’s pleasant hum, without the little traveler’s footsteps, without the chatter of a hundred scribes and runners and—

It was quiet. Quirrel didn’t allow himself to think beyond that. He wove his way through the maze of walkways, unmoved by the acid that bubbled around him. It was all he could do not to run.

He didn’t want to be here when it happened.

He took the stairs two at a time. The long way, his memory supplied distantly. Through the desks and dusty shelves of vials. Ghost had gone straight for the basement. How had they known where to go?

An answer floated up from his mind unbidden, but Quirrel viciously squashed the thought. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to _think_. His world was spinning, collapsing inward, everything he thought he understood was nothing compared to the truth.

A few Uomas floated by, artificial minds dripping with infection. Even their simple life was not immune to it. They did not attack, but their listless floating was almost worse. Quirrel remembered how they were supposed to be. The archive ceilings had been a twisting maze of flying Uomas, racing through the skies with the infectiously enthusiastic as their creator. Now just a few remained, mindless and quiet. A long Ooma continuously hit the ceiling, its core glowing dangerously. The energy meant to be used for learning perverted to hurt.

Uumuu had meant to hurt. They hadn’t even recognized him, even as he exploited the weaknesses, he himself had let pass in its design—

Monomon died.

Quirrel felt her. A rush of energy, like a bubble popping in his head. Silent. Deafening.

There was no scream. Madam was brave until the very end.

Quirrel. Quirrel was not brave.

He ran.

The world was grey. Of course, nothing had really changed. Still, Quirrel swore Hallownest was in mourning. Even the infected seemed to feel it, throwing themselves at him with new, swollen vigor. Or perhaps they thought him an easy target. His nail moved with a mind of its own, parrying blows he didn’t see. If he’d run into something really dangerous he’d have been skewered, too drained to teleport and too weak to fight back, but he was lucky.

Lucky. His nail took down another Uomu. Quirrel wanted to cry. He was surprised he wasn’t. Shouldn’t he be crying?

His empty meandering led him through the tunnels and corridors—not to somewhere but away—until his feet hit the edge of blue water. He could walk no more.

The lake was so vast. Quirrel had a vague memory of seeing a larger one, but the details of it had disappeared with everything else he’d witnessed before he’d entered the kingdom. That is, except for the memories of his old life here. Those were still trickling in, like the lake trickled down onto the city below.

The City of Tears. Blue Lake. There used to be… _something_ here.

He didn’t push. It was nice to be somewhere unrecognizable. It made him feel less like a ghost.

Hah. Ghost.

Quirrel was the real ghost. A remnant of a time long past, like the broken statues in the hall outside. He was purposeless. Empty. How many thoughts had been placed in him by Madam’s will? His wonder for the world was gone. Even at the edge of this immense blue, he felt nothing. He knew it was beautiful, but what did that mean? What did that matter?

Madam was gone. Hallownest was in ruin. And Quirrel was, unthinkably, still here.

Quirrel stepped closer to the water’s edge, enough to feel it lick his feet. The water was cold, but in a good way.

Right. It felt right.

He stepped back up. Stuck his nail in the ground, something he wouldn’t have dreamed of doing a few days ago. But the nail was old, as old as him. It had served its time.

Quirrel he sat down, as close to the lake as dared. Water lapped at his ankles, icy, brilliant blue.

He could not feel wonder, but the lake’s beauty soothed his aching heart. The surface of the water sparkled as lumaflies flitted above. Wild lumaflies. Once, they had been caught and used to near extinction. Breeding lumaflies had been a big business. Quirrel leaned back, letting the memory float away with the water.

He could think of worse places to die.

The thought didn’t disturb him. Without Monomon’s final task pushing him onward, he felt impossibly old. Old and weary. Every tool became obsolete eventually. The lake offered peace. A cold hand promising to take him gently under.

A bug screeched in the distance, interrupting his trance. Another scream, closer—furious, attacking. Quirrel looked back but made no move for his nail. Out of reach, anyway.

He was so tired.

A second later, Ghost slid around the corner. Before Quirrel could even begin to grapple with seeing them again Ghost dashed forward and latched onto Quirrel with the force of a stampeding stag beetle.

“Ah!” Quirrel’s voice was unrecognizable in his ears. He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the scratchiness, but no such luck. “Hello again, my short friend.”

The words came unbidden, untested. But of course they were friends. Ghost had no choice but to fulfill their role in this tragedy, the same as him.

Ghost lifted their head. Their eyes were as black and empty as ever, but the way they clung to Quirrel’s arm spoke volumes. Quirrel felt himself frown.

“Are you alright? As flattered as I am by your warm greeting, you are not usually so physically affectionate.”

No response. Their hands were cold, even colder than the water. When Quirrel had accidentally brushed against them in the hot spring, their mask had felt cool too. But Ghost had flinched away then. Now they wrapped around him, only leaning back enough to point a hand at Quirrel, then make the sign for question.

It took Quirrel a few long seconds to piece together a guess. His brain felt sluggish, chilled. “Are you… asking if I’m alright?”

Ghost nodded.

Quirrel didn’t know how to answer that. Eventually he nodded back because he didn’t know what else to do. “I am at peace,” he said.

Ghost didn’t let go. In fact, they hugged his arm tighter, cool mask pressed against his shell, and looked out at the water.

Quirrel followed their gaze. Hadn’t he said something about wanting to see this place before he left the kingdom? Funny how life played out.

Or not. Quirrel’s life had been set out an age ago, written in his head before he himself could know it. A loyal servant, duty completed now cut free.

Quirrel couldn’t say how long they sat there. He only came back to the present when Ghost shifted, letting go of his arm to properly stand. Their nail was brighter now, he noted absently. They must have seen the Nailsmith after all.

Ghost stood, looking at him. It must be time to say goodbye.

He should say he forgave them. That he understood. It had been their part to play. One they hadn’t chosen but had fulfilled in their turn.

**_They killed her. She didn’t even fight back._ **

He couldn’t say it.

But he had to say something.

“Twice I've seen this world. Though my service may have stripped the first experience from me, I'm thankful I could witness its beauty again,” he began. A reassurance and an affirmation. “Hallownest is a vast and wondrous thing, but in as many wonders as it holds, I've seen none quite so intriguing as you.”

Ghost didn’t respond.

He huffed a laugh. “My flattery returns only silent stoicism. I like that. I like that very much.”

Ghost’s hand latched onto Quirrel’s arm.

The strength of it surprised Quirrel, and he didn’t think to resist as the small bug dragged him half-way to standing. He blinked down at Ghost stupidly.

“What are you doing?”

Ghost pointed to Quirrel, then up. They signed with their free hand _We go_.

Quirrel shook his head. He sat back, forcing Ghost to step forward or let go of his arm. “Thank you, my friend, but I will stay here. Allow me to rest a time. You must be on with your journey, no?”

Ghost shook their head stubbornly, digging in their heels. Signing was not a language designed for one arm (in fact, many signs only reached their true meaning when brought to life with four hands or more) but Quirrel did his best to follow Ghosts sharp jab-like words.

_You no stay. You walk in lake. You die. You no die. You no die._

Ghost was nearly frantic, more emotional than Quirrel had ever seen them. Thin wisps of something dark, not unlike smoke, was leaking out a hairline crack in their mask. They gave up on signing in favor of grabbing Quirrel’s arm with both hands, trying to drag him back.

Quirrel reached out and pulled the smaller bug back toward him, practically into his lap. They went willingly. They were shaking. Quirrel rested his mask between their horns, shushing indistinctly. His arms wrapped around them to rub their back.

“It’s okay,” he soothed. “You’re okay. We’re okay.”

Ghost mutely shook their head.

Quirrel closed his eyes. He had no idea how Ghost had come to guess his plans, but they were clearly in distress. What had once been the obvious path was now grown over with guilt. It wouldn’t be right for him to attain peace at Ghost’s expense. They would blame themself, or some other ludicrous thought, and that wasn’t right. They had a job to do. They couldn’t be worrying about an old bug like him.

“I’ll go with you,” Quirrel found himself saying. “If it would lift this anxiety from you, then accompanying you for a time is the least I can do.”

Ghost leaned back hastily, staring up at him. Quirrel attempted a smile, though Ghost could not see it anyway.

_You go with me?_

Quirrel raised his hands, repeating the signs as he spoke. “I’ll go with you.”

Ghost rushed back in to hug him. Quirrel felt his shell protest, but he didn’t push Ghost away. He hid his wince and patted their head gently. 

Then Ghost standing, pulling at Quirrel’s hands energetically until he made himself stand. They retrieved his nail, thrusting it at him before he had the chance to refuse, and began to usher him back toward the path.

Quirrel let them. He placed the nail back in its old place at his side. It felt wrong, but he could not stand idly by if they ran into trouble. Quirrel would follow Ghost until this little bout of paranoid concern had passed. Then, once they were again focused on their objective, he would make his excuses and take his own path.

There were plenty of beautiful places in this kingdom. Surely it wouldn’t be hard to find a nice corner to die in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wave goodbye to canon! We're on our own train now (:


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost drags Quirrel around like he's their favorite stuffed toy

Ghost was terrifyingly proficient with their nail.

Quirrel trailed behind the small bug, his own nail silent in his hand. He had only raised it once on their journey through these dark passageways, and the mummified corpse had seemed to be as much running away from Ghost as attacking him. Quirrel didn’t blame it. Ghost took out any and every bug they encountered with single-minded determination.

He’d known they could fight. After all, they’d survived their trek through Deepenest, along with every other danger the kingdom and its neighbors had thrown at them. If Uumuu hadn’t been created to be indestructible, with a failsafe only a select few had known about, Quirrel had no doubt Ghost would have made quick work of them.

They might even have succeeded without his knowledge, Quirrel amended as Ghost felled a sentry three times their size. Their form did not have the precision that Quirrel had beaten into him, but the power, speed, and tireless determination of their strikes spoke to what must have been years of combat experience. Their stamina was almost unnatural. Ghost tackled the catacombs the without hesitation. If Quirrel hadn’t been there when Ghost took down Uumuu, Quirrel would have never guessed they’d recently been through an intense battle.

Ghost glanced back at him. Quirrel offered them a thumbs up. He couldn’t see their expression, but he was sure he wasn’t imagining the _look_ they gave him.

“You are an even more adept warrior than I had guessed,” Quirrel said, ignoring the look. “I’m amazed your first nail didn’t fail you, with the strength you put behind your blows. Though perhaps you relied more on magic until your nail matched your expertise?”

Ghost hasn’t used any spells in these tunnels, but they had against Uumuu. They were… strange. Unnerving, if he was being honest. He was grateful Ghost seemed to prefer their nail now.

Ghost turned so they were walking backwards, steps confident despite not looking at the pockmarked floor. _I not know spells before. Snails taught me._

Quirrel felt a tickle of a recollection at the back of his mind, a sense of unease. He pushed it away. “So you are a fast learner too? You never cease to impress me.”

Ghost ducked their head, stepping around a rock without looking.

“And you’re humble, too? Of course you are,” Quirrel teased. He shook his head. “What are you doing traveling with an old bug like me?”

Ghost’s head shot up. _You stop talk_

Quirrel chuckled. “Are you telling me to shut up?”

They nodded vigorously, waving their arms in a wordless emotion impossible to interpret. They were so distracted that they nearly tripped over an exposed root.

“Turn around and look where you’re walking,” Quirrel admonished, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the smile in his voice. “You’re going to crack your mask.”

Ghost stopped walking, staring up at him with their big eye holes.

Quirrel took a guess. “Have you never cracked your mask? From what I’ve heard, it’s a truly dreadful experience. I would not recommend it.”

His eyes landed on the hairline fracture behind Ghost’s left horn. “Oh, I forgot. You have already cracked your mask today. How did that happen? Does it still hurt?” He stepped forward, curiously feeling along the faint line. It didn’t seem big enough to have pulled the flesh underneath too dramatically, but looks could be deceiving.

Ghost reached up and out their hand next to Quirrel, feeling along their mask. They didn’t have a distinct joint between their hand and arm Quirrel noticed suddenly. A bit like Monomon’s arms. Her arms had also felt cold.

Quirrel pulled back.

Ghost looked up at him, hands falling down to their side.

Quirrel forced himself to the present. “Does it hurt?”

Ghost shrugged. _Small. In past hurt worse._

“That is not reassuring, my friend. Perhaps we should visit the mask maker? I believe I saw signs for their shop.” If anyone was still alive, it would be that strange bug.

Ghost shook their head. _Me fine. We go up!_

Up? Quirrel had assumed they were heading for the elevator to the city. What did Ghost need toward the surface?

He did not get the chance to ask. Ghost led Quirrel up a steep, narrow passageway, and Quirrel had no breath to talk. Ghost hopped from ledge to ledge, leaping across the gaps as if they had no fear of falling. As if they’d done it a hundred times before. They were waiting patiently at the top as Quirrel clambered out.

“I am too old for this,” Quirrel wheezed.

He had the distinct feeling Ghost was laughing at him. They pulled at his hand.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.”

The tunnel had led them to a graveyard. Quirrel tried not to look too closely at the names.

Luckily, they did not have to walk far. Ghost led them to the edge of a platform, cloak moving as if their arms were searching somewhere within. Quirrel came up beside them. The black machine in front of them, a little shorter than Quirrel, was familiar. As Ghost pulled a small badge from somewhere within their clothes, recognition hit.

“A tram station.” Quirrel looked around in new wonder as Ghost inserted the pass. “Here? I heard of one in the depths, but I thought they planned to make another near Deepnest. Where are we?”

 _RESTING GROUNDS,_ Ghost spelled out.

Quirrel waited for a memory to fill him in, but none came.

The tram arrived momentarily, and all other thoughts left Quirrel’s mind. He walked in as soon as the doors opened, taking in the warm light and the smell of dusty machinery. Ghost slipped past to work a mechanism at the far end. The tram rumbled. Quirrel pulled Ghost back to the seat, moth-eaten as it was, and leaned forward. Slight variations in the tunnel outside flickered past the windows.

Ghost tugged on Quirrel’s arm to get his attention. _You like?_

Quirrel glances down at them, smiling wide. “Yes! Yes, I like it very much. I was in the archive when the first tram was finished, but I never had time to ride it myself. It doesn’t feel anything like a stag beetle, but I understand now why people said it was like a living thing. It’s wonderful!” He pushed his feet against the floor, enjoying the vibration.

 _I like the stag better,_ Ghost signed as the tram slowed to a stop.

“Ah, I don’t blame you. They were incredible people. The speeds at which they took corners! The first time I rode one, I thought I was going to die. I actually screamed. She didn’t laugh at me, she was too polite, but I knew she wanted to…”

She was dead. They were all dead.

Quirrel’s good mood evaporated into smoke.

“Ah, well. That was a long time ago.” He managed to keep his voice cheerful, but only just.

Ghost didn’t seem to notice. They took his hand and pulled him off the tram, onto another platform. This, at least, he recognized.

“The crossroads. What do you need here?”

Ghost didn’t answer, pulling him long with one hand and nail gripped tight in another.

“Ghost, this isn’t the right way.” He remembered where the Dreamers were, whether he wanted to or not. They needed to go back down. “We need to go down.”

Ghost didn’t respond. Quirrel wanted to press more, but was quickly distracted by the heady air that hit him like a wall as they stepped out of the station. Orange vines dug into the stone, pulsing with a sickly life, and Quirrell swore that vengefully was bigger than he remembered.

“…what happened?”

Ghost didn’t react to the changes. They pressed forward with vigor, leaving infected corpses in their wake. Quirrel followed, trying to connect his memories of these tunnels with that he was seeing.

The fact that he kept getting flashes of the crossroads from _before_ really wasn’t helping.

“It’s only going to get worse,” he mumbled to himself. He didn’t know how he knew, and he didn’t want to know how. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “We should go to the City first. The tower, there can’t be many guards anymore…”

Ghost wasn’t listening. They’d stopped at an intersection of three passages, looking toward the smaller one and tilting their head. In the distance, Quirrel heard the faint echoes of a scratchy voice.

Ghost began to _vibrate_. They spun back and tugged on Quirrel’s hand, as if he hadn’t already been watching them. _We go there, quick talk?_ they signed sloppily. _Please?_

Quirrel shook his head, bemused. Now they were asking him where to go? “Don’t let me stop you.”

Ghost paused. They visibly stilled themself, looking him over with their unique too-much focus. _What you want? Want you feel better._

His frustration melted under their concern. “I’m fine, Ghost.”

They just looked at him.

It occurred to him suddenly that they were probably taking these upper roads for his sake. Though the crossroads were more dangerous than he remembered, they did not compare to the threats that lurked deeper in the ruins. They were trying to protect him, the same way they were attacking everything before it could get anywhere close to Quirrel.

It was sweet. And it had to stop. Ghost couldn’t finish the story if they were too busy keeping Quirrel safe.

He knelt and rested a hand on their oversized mask. “I am not lying, my friend. I do not deny that I am not quite myself—”

**_How would you know? Who were you? Who are you?_ **

Quirrel pushed the unsettling thought away. “—but I am well enough. Far luckier than most bugs in this place. I am enjoying our journey together.” He squeezed their hand, ignoring the cold. “Alright? No more worrying about me.”

Ghost squeezed their hand back. Quirrel took that as an agreement.

_How sign you say?_

“How sign… which word? Worry?”

They nodded.

Quirrel circled his hands in front of his face. They repeated it. _Thanks._

“Of course.” Quirrel stood, wincing as his leg joints cracked ominously. “Now let’s go meet your friend. I am always eager to meet another traveler.”

Ghost squeezed his hand again before running down the tunnel. Quirrel followed at a more sedate pace, hopping down from a short ledge and entering into a larger throughway. He remembered this area—he smiled humorlessly at the old stag sign. He ducked into the station, following the sound of muffled conversation.

“…thing. You use these old lines? Pathetic.

Quirrel blinked. A bug was sitting on the bench, slouched, with their arms resting on their knees. They wore a strange pointed hat and dented armor, though it gleamed in the light of the captured lumaflies above. They also held a shield, quite unlike anything Quirrel had seen before. Most notably, their eyes were wonderfully clear.

Though that did make their rude words rather less excusable.

“A real warrior carries himself to combat,” the bug continued imperiously. “He has no need for such convenience.”

Ghost bounced in front of the stranger, seemingly unbothered by their tone. They waved their arms quickly.

The bug stared at Ghost without comprehension. “I don’t understand. What do you want?”

“Perhaps I can translate,” Quirrel offered.

The bug sprang to their feet, their shield raised in an instant. Quirrel shifted his feet but did not kept his hands low, his nail purposefully pointed at the floor. The other bug waited a moment before lowering their shield as well, though not all the way. Their gaze raked over him.

“You’re a warrior.” Their eyes gleamed from under their hood. “Are you searching for the arena as well? I have already promised to show my skills to the pale one, if they dare to find me there. It would be a better challenge if you joined them.”

Quirrel glanced at Ghost at ‘pale thing’. “I think you’d find Ghost is enough of a ‘challenge’ on their own.”

The bug huffed, flopping back onto the bench dramatically. “You know nothing. I should have known. If you knew, you would be there, not following the little pale one around.”

Quirrel wasn’t sure if he was being insulted or not. From the stranger’s tone of voice, it certainly sounded like it. “My name is Quirrel. As I said before, my companion is called Ghost.”

The bug didn’t acknowledge the greeting beyond a glance.

Why Ghost wanted to talk to this bug was beyond Quirrel. He turned back toward Ghost, keeping his voice pleasant with the ease of practice. “What was it you were telling them”

Ghost repeated the signs eagerly. _Me went down, that way. No fight area. Fight area that way maybe?_ They pointed first toward Deepnest, then toward the City. Then they pointed at Quirrel. _You know many places. You know fight he searching for?_

Quirrel frowned. “A fight area? There are infected bugs everywhere in—"

The stranger made a derisive noise, interrupting Quirrel without opening his eyes. “The bugs that spew orange are hardly a challenge. I came here to test my skills, not blunt my nail.”

Quirrel resisted the urge to yank the stranger’s hood over his smug face.

Ghost didn’t seem to mind the other bug’s lack of manners. _You talk to him please? Tell go toward City. Maybe down?_

Quirrel complied, albeit reluctantly. “Ghost wants me to tell you that a ‘fight area’ may be past the City of Tears.”

That got the bug’s attention. He sat up, looking down at Ghost. “You saw the arena?”

They shook their head.

He slouched again. “Urgh. Of course you haven’t.” Another dramatic sigh. “I suppose I will head that way first. I've already wasted far too long on these cursed roads.”

Quirrel stepped to the side. The bug just blinked at Quirrel. Despite his words, he seemed in no hurry to leave.

Quirrel cleared his throat and looked toward the exit.

“Ah.” The bug jerked a little, then stood. “I have rested long enough. This place bores me.” He strode to arch. Hesitated. “I look forward to meeting you at the arena, Ghost.”

Quirrel and Ghost watched him jump out of sight.

“They seem… interesting,” Quirrel managed.

Ghost looked up at Quirrel. _He funny. Name TISO. Want to fight._

“I saw.”

 _I want to fight him in future. He think I weak._ Quirrel got the distinct impression they were grinning. _You think he surprise?_

Quirrel chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure he will be. I wouldn’t mind watching that. I think his reaction to your victory will be quite entertaining.”

Ghost nodded enthusiastically. _Fun!_

Quirrel imagined Tiso dissolving into a tantrum, that strange voice screeching in in impotent fury. He immediately felt guilty for smiling, but, well. Saying Tiso had been rude was an understatement. He could stand to be taken down a notch.

Quirrel’s musings were interrupted by the loud clanging of the station bell. Quirrel turned to where Ghost was enthusiastically beating the bell with their nail, seemingly unaffected by the noise as they struck it again and again. Quirrel felt a rush of fondness, then loss. Then nothing.

“I’m surprised that thing still works,” Quirrel said. He doubted Ghost could hear him above the din.

Ghost stopped hitting the bell, running back to him. They reached for his hand and eagerly pulled him forward.

Quirrel let them, huffing a laugh. “Yes, the bell is very cool, but I don’t need to ring it. I used to all the time. I remember this station when it was packed with people, miners and merchants and such. If you’d run up and rang the bell like that then, you would have had a lot of annoyed bugs yelling at you for the racket…”

Quirrel trailed off. He almost thought he heard footsteps. It must be an echo of his memory. But no, he swore the noise was getting louder.

“There can’t be—”

A stag beetle thundered into the station, kicking up a plume of dust as it came to a precise stop in front of the platform. Quirrel stared as a large, bearded face swung toward him.

“You can’t be here,” Quirrel said faintly.

The stag laughed. “And yet, here I am! I don’t deny that it has been an age since the stagways had such activity, but my little friend has been opening up the old stations! I may be old, but I have not forgot my duty.”

Quirrel stuttered out a bow. It wasn’t the right formality for an elder, his memory supplied belatedly, but he doubted the old bug would mind. “My deepest apologies! Excuse my manners, you caught me by surprise. I never expected to see one of your kind again. How happy I am to be wrong!”

“Oh, please, there’s no need for such formality. There’s so few of us around that remember those old things.” The stag sounded pleased, despite the protest. His dark eyes twinkled with a smile. “But it’s good to see another friendly face from that time. You’ll forgive me if my old legs don’t take much to bending low anymore.”

“Oh, no, I never would have merited such a display,” Quirrel sputtered out hastily.

The stag laughed again. “As you say. Well, my new friend, do you have a destination in mind? Or do you travel with the little one?”

Ghost took Quirrel’s hand, firmly answering for them both. _We go up._

“To Dirtmouth?”

They nodded.

Quirrel sighed internally and held his tongue.

“Well then. Climb on!”

It was impossible to think on a moving stag beetle. Quirrel held the front of the seat in a death grip, gasping each time the beetle’s turns nearly sent him tumbling out of the saddle. Ghost took no such precautions, leaning into the turns. Quirrel began to lean with them. Oh, how he’d missed this.

The trip was over nearly as soon as it started. The stag slowed in front of a small platform, and Ghost was tugging Quirrel off before the stag had even fully stopped. Quirrel waved over his shoulder, grinning breathlessly. “Thank you!”

“You are quite welcome. Tell the others I said hello!”

Before Quirrel could ask what he meant, Ghost pulled him onto an elevator and sent them up. Someone was talking outside the station, but it didn’t sound like the Elderbug. Last time Quirrel had come through, he’d been the only one left above ground.

“Did someone move to Dirtmouth since I came through?” he asked Ghost.

They squeezed his hand and pulled him off the platform.

“Ghost, you can’t just pretend to not know any signs any time I ask a question—”

They pulled him outside, and the voice instantly stopped. Quirrel stared around as not one, not two, but five bugs looked back at him from where they were gathered around the humble iron bench he’d sat on what felt like an age ago.

The silence didn’t last long. The largest bug, a woman with what looked like a bag over her head, stepped forward. Her voice, cheerful and booming, pounded into Quirrel’s head with the same strength her hand slapped Ghost’s back. They nearly fell over.

“Ghost! You brought up another one, hm?” She patted them again, noticeably lighter, before turning to Quirrel. “Any friend of theirs is a friend of mine. Welcome to Dirtmouth! Don’t worry, you’re safe here. Do you like hugs?”

Quirrel nodded, more out of shock than anything else, and instantly found himself enveloped by the larger bugs muscular arms.

…Quirrel admitted to himself that he had no idea what was happening, and, at this point, he should stop expecting to understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cloth is dirtmouth... what crimes will she commit? And who is she with?
> 
> On a more serious note- I do not write Ghost's dialogue without articles because they're stupid, or sign language is inferior to English, or any other bullshit. I am patterning this world's sign language off ASL because it's what I know best. Unfortunately, I can't exactly video myself signing and insert that into the text every time Ghost signs, so I'm doing my best to translate the signs into English. Sometimes I will stray a little to make it easier to understand, but I'm trying to be as faithful as possible without stopping to describe every sign and gesture.
> 
> Anyway uhhhh hope y'all are having fun! I'm excited for the next chapter. Lots of familiar faces (:


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